Just An Old Man
by Ster J
Summary: Spock visits McCoy's grave. A/N: Hanky alert! SLASH


Title: Just an Old Man  
Author: Ster Julie  
Rating: PG  
Codes: S (S/Mc implied), omc; written for Spiced Peaches XV  
Part 1 of 1  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, least of all Trek.  
Archive: Only were I post this.  
Summary: Spock visits McCoy's grave.  
A/N: Hanky alert!

--ooOoo--

I found him sitting on the ground, one arm draped over Doc's marker, the other hand moving across its carved surface. His face was hidden in the folds of his hooded robe, but from the look of his hands he was old and possibly not human.

He did not take notice of me as I set down the plants and gardening implements I had brought. I didn't want to disturb him, but the day was promising to be a hot one, and I had wanted to complete my task in the cool of the morning.

"Am I in your way?" his low voice rumbled.

"I am here to tend to the grave, sir," I responded gently. He turned his head to survey what I brought. "Doc had wanted mint to grow on his plot," I explained, "so that when people stopped by to visit, they could take some mint home and have a drink on him."

I watched as the man's shoulders heaved in a great sigh.

"I came as soon as I could," he whispered, tracing the Doc's name on the stone over and over again. He traced his fingers on the date of death, a date nearly three months past. "I felt him calling to me," he sighed again. "I felt when he died, but I couldn't get away. I couldn't make passage until now."

The man fell silent. I didn't want to upset him further, but I didn't know when I could get back to do this one last task for Doc. It was selfish, but I rationalized that it might be helpful to us both if he assisted me. Perhaps the activity would be cathartic for the man.

"Would you like to help me?" I offered. The man turned to me and I saw he was Vulcan, despite the tears that stained his cheeks.

We worked for an hour in silence, lining out the plot with string guides, setting in the dividers that would corral the mint roots that could insinuate themselves with the whole cemetery garden if allowed to grow unchecked. We next pulled up the grass sod that had grown back over the grave and replaced it with the mint plants. I dug a deep hole with a laser shovel to the side of the headstone and planted a young Georgia peach tree, a sapling from Doc's family orchard.

"That will be beautiful in the spring when it blooms," I proclaimed, finally breaking our silence. "It should produce fruit in a few years. When you come back to visit…"

"I will not be back to visit," the Vulcan announced. "All that he was resides here with me." He touched his chest in the place I supposed held his heart.

I piled all the tools and leftover trappings onto the anti-grav cart and turned back to see him sitting once more near the headstone. He looked so forlorn.

"Can I drop you off at your home?" I ask gently. He shook his head.

"I have no home here now," he whispered.

"Perhaps one of you friends?"

"They are all gone."

I had an idea whom this Vulcan was, but I didn't want to assume anything.

"Who are you, sir?" I ask.

"I'm just an old man," he said morosely, "an old man who loved another old man."

"Are you Doc's 'pointed-eared hobgoblin'?" I dare.

He closed his eyes at the nickname and nodded.

"He spoke often of you, sir," I continued. "He was so proud of you, of your efforts. He wished you well all the time."

"How do you know this?" the Vulcan asked.

"I was his caregiver," I stated.

"You are Billy Joe?" he asked, turning to look up at me.

I smiled at the name and even teared up a bit. "My name is Eric," I corrected. "Doc called all of his caregivers Billy Joe for some reason."

"Were you with him when he died?" the Vulcan asked.

I couldn't stop my lip from quivering at that. "He had sent me out of the room to get something," I forced out. "I heard the monitors flat line as I reentered the room. He slipped away so quickly, so quietly." I paused to wipe my face. "You know, he died holding on to an old robe that he said he had once stolen from his 'pointed-eared hobgoblin.' You may not have been here in person when he died, sir, but you were definitely on his mind and in his heart."

The Vulcan turned back to the grave. I hated to leave him here alone and on the ground.

"Thank you for taking care of him," I heard him whisper.

"It was my honor to care for him," I stated with conviction. "Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" I asked. "Can I take you anywhere or bring you anything?"

"I require nothing at this time," he answered formally.

I plucked my canteen off the sled. "At least take some water," I offered. "Take care of yourself."

"Why bother?" he asked sadly.

"Because Doc told me stories of how many times he had to put you back together," I responded hotly. "It would disrespect his memory to throw your life away."

The Vulcan didn't reply. He just kept tracing Doc's name over and over.

I powered up the sled and moved away. At the edge of the cemetery I looked back and saw him still sitting on the ground, one arm draped over Doc's marker, the other moving again across its carved surface.

The Vulcan was obviously more than just an old man who loved another old man. I would have to check back on him before I left town.

-

Several hours later I returned to the cemetery. The man was gone. I knelt at the foot of Doc's grave and surveyed our work. The air was fragrant with the scent of sun-warmed mint and the peach sapling was standing bravely in its new location. I looked up at the stone to say goodbye to the doctor when I realized that there was something different about it. There was his name, Leonard Horatio McCoy, MD along with his birth date and date of death. The usual accolades were still there: Starfleet Admiral, retired; Surgeon General; Beloved father, grandfather, colleague and friend; "Just an old country doctor;" "Thanks for stopping by. Have a drink on me." It was then that I saw it, a scrolling alien script written down the side of the stone. It was carved as deep as the other writing and filled in with something dark. Doc had given me one of his old tricorders before he passed. I whipped it out and ran it over the new carving. The dark liquid filling the engraving was Vulcan blood. The carving was not scrollwork but one word written in Vulcan--Adun. Husband.

Oh yes, I thought. This Vulcan was certainly more than an old man who loved another old man.

END


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